


Welcome to the Family

by heeroluva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of murders leads to an unusual suspect who changes Lestrade's life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to the Family

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twilightfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightfire/gifts).



> Written for [](http://wishlist_fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**wishlist_fic**](http://wishlist_fic.livejournal.com/) for [](http://meteorfire.livejournal.com/profile)[**meteorfire**](http://meteorfire.livejournal.com/) 's prompt asking for Sherlock, Mycroft/Lestrade, immortality. All mistakes are mine. Feel free to let me know if you see any. As always feedback is appreciated.

When Lestrade woke, everything hurt, but that wasn’t what drew his attention and caused him to moan. He was hungry, unbearably, unbelievably hungry, unlike anything he had experienced before. It wasn’t a simple hungry pain, nor the nausea brought on from missing one too many meal and drinking far too much coffee. Rather it was a burning, churning ache that centered in his abdomen and radiated outward until it consumed him and left him felling hollow, breathless and begging.

Weak as a kitten, Lestrade struggled to sit up, the sweat-soaked sheets sheets tangled around him and hindering his movements. After a struggle, he finally managed to unwrap the sheets and free his legs. However, once under him, they refused to cooperate and support his weight, and he collapsed to the floor with a pitiful moan, desperate, needy, and apparently as helpless as a babe.

A pair of nicely dressed legs appeared in front of him with shoes so polished they shone despite the dim light of the room. Lestrade found himself hauled back up onto the bed as though he weighed nothing. A wonderful smell suddenly reached his nose, causing his mouth to water as his focus was drawn by the mug in the man’s hands. Reaching for it, the mug was pulled back out of his reach, and he released a sudden rumbling growl.

A small part of Lestrade was startled by his actions, by the sound because something wasn’t right, this wasn’t him, but the larger, more vocal part of him just wanted the content of the mug just out of reach and that was all that mattered in this instance.

The mug was moved towards him slowly, and his hands shot out, wrapping tightly around the man’s wrists, fingers digging in as he tried to get the mug closer, faster.

However, the man was an unmoving force, not being hurried as the mug finally reached Lestrade’s lips, tipping it slightly. At the first taste, Lestrade was lost, wanting, no, needing more as every sip was like a balm for his frazzled nerve endings.

But the hands still weren’t to be hurried, barely tipping the mug, and a cultured voice said, “Slow.”

Damn slow, Lestrade wanted to shout, but that would have involved stopping what he was doing, which wasn’t even an option. But the voice held such command that Lestrade couldn’t help but obey, slowing down even more and savoring each sip.

The taste was near ambrosia on his tongue, and each drop seemed to strengthen him, chase the weakness from his limbs, and sate the hunger that had been gnawing at his bones. When the mug was finally empty, Lestrade turned his attention to the drops on the man’s hands and wrists, licking them up and wondering at the difference in taste, how it somehow tasted even better. Finally with a satisfied sigh, his hands dropped away, and he felt infinitely better.

But just as quickly as relaxation had fallen over Lestrade, it was washed away by disbelief and terror as he took note of the red staining his fingernails. Slowly, so very slowly, his gaze rose to those hands still wrapped around the mug and he took note of the red crescents marring the pale skin.

Panic rose in his throat as Lestrade’s eyes rose farther.

“Welcome to your new life, Geoffrey Lestrade,” Mycroft Holmes greeted with a sharp-toothed grin, his eyes strangely bright despite the lack of light in the room.

Lestrade tried to scramble back, but froze at Mycroft’s words.

“Please do relax, Detective. What is the last thing you remember before waking up here?”

Lestrade struggled to make sense of it, of what was going on. Had he just drank _blood_? But against his will his thoughts were pulled away from his panic and he began to remember the event of the previous week. The gruesome serial murders with little evidence, to finally having a lead. A suspect. A chase. Then there had been pain, burning, mind-numbing pain that almost had him wishing for death if it would just end. And as abruptly a the pain had began it had stopped. Someone else had been there, fighting against the man. Sherlock. It had been Sherlock! Sherlock called him an idiot. Sherlock who ripped at his own wrist with fangs. Fangs? And a bleeding wrist had been shoved against his lips. Then there was nothing, nothing until here..

And Lestrade found himself laughing historically. Vampires. Sherlock was a vampire, as was the murderer, and apparently Mycroft. Hands rose to his mouth, and he probed at his teeth, jerking back as a sharp point drew blood-- No! He couldn’t be. It was too much to believe.

The bed dipped as Mycroft settled next to him. “Yes, Geoffrey. Say it.”

Lestrade didn’t want to because the words would make it all too real and he couldn’t take them back, but he said them anyway. “Vampire. You’re a vampire. I’m a vampire.”

Mycroft’s smile widened even farther, both fascinating and terrifying. “Very good, Detective. Now...” Mycroft bit as his wrist, soft skin giving way easily.

As it pressed up against his lips, Lestrade tried to resist but the temptation was too great and his lips hesitantly parted, his tongue darting out for a taste. So much better even than what he’d licked from Mycroft’s skin, Lestrade’s mouth opened wide, and he sank his fangs deep into Mycroft’s flesh, not noting the shuddered that his actions produced, too overwhelmed by the experience.

Finally completely full, Lestrade pulled back, instinctively licking the wound to close it. Then Mycroft suddenly moved, pressing against Lestrade as his tongue licked the the blood from Lestrade’s lips then chased the taste into his mouth, Lestrade eagerly returned the kiss, moaning when Mycroft’s kisses trailed down to his surprisingly sensitive neck.

“Welcome to the family,” Mycroft whispered in his ear before his fangs sank into Lestrade’s neck who was lost as his senses exploded in pleasure.


End file.
